


Luxury Dinner Date with my Boyfriend (and Agatha)

by BookishAngel (DisnerdingAvenger)



Series: Bright Young Things [3]
Category: Bright Young Things, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Disaster Domestics, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, a rich boy's first attempt at cooking, implied hurt/comfort, love and affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-22 17:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18139169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisnerdingAvenger/pseuds/BookishAngel
Summary: When Crowley leaves his toothbrush in Miles' ensuite, Miles becomes convinced that he wants to take their relationship to the next level. With the help of his trusted best friend, that means cooking Crowley Bolognese spaghetti alla carbonara. The only problem? Miles has never cooked a day in his life, and Crowley is rather attached to his flat and doesn't wish to see it burned to the ground.





	Luxury Dinner Date with my Boyfriend (and Agatha)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meganseverafter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meganseverafter/gifts).



> Inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKa230ouqI0) Shane & Ryland vlog, and Megan's clever observation that they are ABSOLUTELY a modern day AU of Crowley and Miles. Yes, I'm aware that I haven't even finished writing the initial AU yet, but this is a plot bunny that needed to be pursued. Enjoy. <3

It had been four months, thirteen days, seventeen hours and five minutes since Miles met Crowley on Archie’s yacht, and within the span of four months, thirteen days, seventeen hours and five minutes, Miles Maitland became utterly _smitten_ with Anthony J. Crowley. More smitten than he had ever been with anyone before, and he’d dated his fair share of extraordinary people: actors, musicians, athletes, race-car drivers; name a profession, Miles probably snogged one at some point. The CEO of a successful tech company _was_ a new experience, however, and he was thoroughly enjoying the ride.

You see, while Miles was a trust fund baby through and through, as were most of his friends, Crowley’s fortune was self-made; he invented the tremendously popular dating (i.e. shameless shagging) app, Edenic Connexion, fresh out of university. He was still living on the advertising profits nearly a decade later.

Miles and Crowley didn’t need an app to foster their “connexion”. Miles, tipsy on a combination of cognac and cocaine, tripped over a pair of long legs that were lounging poolside – _that happened to belong to Crowley_ – and fell directly on top of an incredibly attractive body – _also belonging to Crowley_. Crowley, after having Miles quite literally fall into his lap, had simply lowered his dark sunglasses on his nose and smirked. The two of them commandeered one of the yacht’s bedrooms roughly half an hour later, and they’ve been commandeering each other’s bedrooms ever since.

Now, however, things were getting _serious_ – or, at the very least, Miles had convinced himself that they were.

* * *

"You fancy him, don’t you?”

“Of _course_ I fancy him, you goose; I _adore_ him. I want to get a rose gold necklace of his name and wear it always.”

“You said the same thing about Tiger.”

Smirking, Agatha sipped her mimosa, watching as Miles dithered over his crepes. They were doing Saturday brunch ( _because everyone knows that Sunday brunch is only a myth, given that all good parties should still be raging on from the night before at that time on a Sunday; otherwise, they’re a colossal waste of time and makeup_ ).

“I _know_ I said the same thing about Tiger, but this time I actually _mean_ it,” Miles remarked, stabbing at his strawberry-covered crepe before peeking up at Agatha from beneath his dark eyelashes. Lowering his voice, he pointedly added, “This necklace would be _diamond encrusted_.”

“Oh, you _do_ mean it!” Agatha gasped, her eyes widening as she put her glass down on the table. Now, however, she was rather perplexed. “What’s the problem, then?”

“The problem, my dear, is that he left a toothbrush in my ensuite and I haven’t the foggiest idea if he did it on purpose, which means I haven’t the _faintest clue_ what to do about… _all of this_ ,” Miles groaned, gesturing vaguely before dropping his fork and gesturing their waiter over to order a bottle of champagne. As he was doing so, Agatha looked thoughtful.

“Has he mentioned it?” she asked once the waiter set off to fetch the champagne. Miles furrowed his brow.

“Has he mentioned what?”

“The toothbrush. If he didn’t _mean_ to leave it behind, I’m sure he would have said something. _Everyone_ knows the significance of a toothbrush, darling; if it was forgotten accidentally and he didn’t wish to send you the wrong message, I’m sure he would have said so by now.”

Pursing his lips, Miles reached back to grab his phone from his coat pocket, quickly checking his messages. There hadn’t been a peep from Crowley all morning, let alone about his “forgotten” toothbrush; the most recent text message was the rather scandalous and suggestive one Miles himself had sent around fifteen minutes before Crowley showed up in Maitland Manor’s foyer the night before. They parted ways at 10:18 a.m. today, Miles to meet Agatha for bunch and Crowley to tend to the very important business of watering his houseplants. Very important business, but not _quite_ important enough to keep him from texting should he have realized his mistake.

In short: the toothbrush, currently sitting by the sink in Miles’ ensuite bathroom, _couldn’t_ have been a mistake – which meant things were getting _serious_ , and Crowley had conveniently forgotten to give Miles the memo. _Oh, **where** was that bloody champagne?!_

Agatha, having known Miles since before either of them were old enough to talk, could tell from the way his hazel eyes widened and his upper lip twitched slightly that he was seconds away from panicking. Surely enough, the expected number of seconds later he exclaimed, “I don’t know what to _do,_ Aggie! I’ve never been in a _serious_ relationship before; none have ever lasted long enough. What do people in serious relationships _do_?”

“They… have dinner?” Agatha suggested, nodding when the waiter approached with Miles’ much-needed champagne, and he scoffed while the waiter obligingly filled his first glass – likely of many.

“We have dinner _now;_ honestly, darling, if you aren’t going to help, I’ll call in reinforcements. Perhaps Nina and Adam. They’re in a serious relationship, aren’t they?”

“Are they?”

“ _Are_ they?”

For a moment, the two just stared at each other, perplexed. Neither of them really knew the answer. In fact, they weren’t quite sure Nina and Adam knew. If their relationship couldn’t be called “serious”, it certainly _could_ be called “bizarre”.

After the moment passed, Agatha’s eyes lit up and she exclaimed, “They have dinner _at home!_ That’s what people in serious relationships do. They don’t dine _out_ , they dine _in_ because all they need is each other’s company and a good rosé.”

Miles, who was currently gulping down his champagne like he was being held upside down at an Oxford fraternity party with a keg tap to his mouth, made an eager nose around his most recent swallow.

“Dining _in!_ Oh, how wonderfully _intimate_. You _are_ a genius, Aggie, simply a _genius!_ ”

“Yes, darling, I know I am,” Agatha coolly agreed before adding, “But there is one problem, isn’t there? It isn’t exactly _intimate_ if you dine at the Manor with your mother, your father, and all of your sisters, now is it?”

Pausing at her apt point, Miles stuck his lip out in a partial pout, sniffing thoughtfully. He hadn’t considered his family. What pesky, unfortunate obstacles. Finally, he finished off his first glass of champagne before musing whilst pouring himself another, “I suppose I’ll just have to cook dinner myself, then, won’t I?”

“But darling, you don’t know how to cook,” Agatha stated, wondering if the champagne wasn’t laced with something stronger to give Miles such a wild and unfounded idea. The only time he’d ever even touched so much as a measuring spoon was when they’d all gotten high at a house party and he used a set from some poor soul’s kitchen to portion out cocaine.

“Oh, _please._ How hard can it possibly be?” Miles quipped as he sipped, shrugging and lifting his fork again to stab at a strawberry. “Besides, Mother would never let me borrow Suzette for the evening; she might get ‘a hankering for something rather suddenly’ and it would positively be the end of the world if no one was in the kitchens to make it for her.”

Clearly still not convinced, Agatha watched Miles chew his strawberry before she asked, “What will you make, then?”

Humming thoughtfully around his fork after taking another bite of his crepes, Miles thought back to the past few weeks worth of dinners that he had spent with Crowley. They’d been to various restaurants all over London, some posh and some obscure; Crowley was rather a connoisseur when it came to the best places in the city to dine. The most recent dish that came to mind was a pasta that they had shared at a tiny, family-run Italian place in Soho; it likely stuck out in Miles’ mind because, upon taking a bite, Crowley had exhaled a rather obscene moan over how good the sauce tasted and that sound became stuck in his head for the rest of the meal. The pasta _had_ been good, though, and surely it was simple enough to make. Noodles and sauce? A _child_ could do it.  

“Bolognese spaghetti alla carbonara,” Miles finally declared, grinning triumphantly as he sipped his champagne, and Agatha raised an elegant eyebrow.

“Miles, darling, I _do_ love you, you _know_ that, but… have you ever boiled pasta before?”

“Well… no.”

“Have you boiled _water?”_

“No,” Miles huffed, rolling his eyes. “I really don’t see why what I have or have not done in the past matters; it’s what I intend to do in the present that’s important. And you’re forgetting, my dear…” Smirking, he lifted his phone again and gave it a suggestive waggle. “All of the world’s knowledge is at our fingertips. I’ll be a master chef with one Google search.”

Having nothing better to do with her day, Agatha decided to tag along after brunch while Miles searched through the local shops for all the ingredients that his masterful, very _serious_ plan would require.

Yes, that’s why she tagged along: boredom. _(Tagging along because the prospect of this idea failing miserably, and possibly quite literally going up in flames, struck her as hilarious wouldn’t be very nice, now would it?)_

* * *

Crowley, after watering his plants and threatening to set fire to them all if they didn’t grow faster, spent the rest of his morning and most of his afternoon taking a long, luxurious nap on his long, luxurious couch. The very last thing he had anticipated was that his nap would be interrupted by the sound of his flat door flying open, the rustling of shopping bags, and Miles’ voice exclaiming, “Crowley, darling, I have a _wonderful_ surprise for you!”

(Two months into their relationship, Crowley had given Miles his spare flat key in order to make their midnight shags easier to acquire. Normally, however, there was a text message involved before his door was flung open and Miles ended up on his lap. _Had he missed a text? How long was he asleep? And – was **Agatha** with him?)_

“More wonderful than the dream you so rudely interrupted?” Crowley harrumphed, rolling over so he was facing the back of the couch, closing his eyes again. He was clad in a black t-shirt and a tight pair of dark jeans, and his sunglasses were pushed up into his tousled red hair. After several moments of shuffling bags and what sounded like a whisper directed at Agatha to “ _finishing unpacking,_ " Crowley felt Miles' presence directly behind him. He’d grown rather attuned to the sensation as of late.

“I suppose that depends - were you dreaming about me?” Miles whispered close to his ear, prompting Crowley’s lips to twitch upward of their own volition even as he stubbornly kept his eyes shut. Of course, keeping up the “I’m-going-back-to-sleep-and-nothing-you-do-will-stop-me” façade was rather difficult with Miles pressing teasing kisses to his jawline. _Minx_.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Crowley murmured, rolling over with snake-like flexibility and knotting his fingers in Miles’ dark curls, tugging his lips down for a pointed kiss. He couldn’t help smirking at the stunned look on the other’s face when they parted; that would never get old. Sitting up, he repositioned his sunglasses on his nose, running a hand through his effortlessly rumpled red hair as he asked, “Why, exactly, is Agatha in my kitchen?”

Blinking a few times to clear his head, Miles’ bright smile returned as he exclaimed, “ _Oh!_ That’s all part of your _surprise_ , my dear.”

The way that he said “surprise”, coupled with his smirk, was so incredibly naughty that Crowley almost began to wonder if he even _wanted_ to know – but of _course_ he did. Arching an eyebrow, he finally drawled, “Do enlighten me.”

Clapping his hands together, the more flamboyant of the two declared, “I’m going to _cook_ for you!”

To put it plainly, Crowley’s reaction wasn’t exactly what Miles had been hoping for... in that it was virtually non-existent. His face was blank and he hadn’t blinked in a solid ten seconds. Finally, Agatha peered through the kitchen’s partition that opened into the living room, declaring, “I think the poor boy’s in shock.”

“You…” Crowley finally spoke, blinking a few times but otherwise remaining expressionless, “…are going to _cook?_ For me?”

“Yes,” Miles huffed, frowning and crossing his arms. “Is that so terribly surprising?”

“Yes,” Crowley stated plainly, rolling his amber eyes when Miles looked terribly offended. “Don’t take it so _personally_ , Miles, it’s just… Well, I _like_ my flat. I may threaten to set the plants on fire when they’re being particularly stubborn, but I don’t _actually_ want to see the place burn to the ground.”

“I’m not going to _set your flat aflame!”_ Miles sulked, his frown melting into a full-on scowl. _He dedicated his entire afternoon to shopping in a **market** and blocked out his entire evening to cook Crowley dinner, and this was the thanks he got?_

“Have you ever cooked before?” Crowley asked.

“No – but it’s only _spaghetti!_ I can’t burn the building down making _spaghetti_.”

“Miles, you’ve never even made yourself dinosaur-shaped nuggets,” Crowley sighed, crossing his own arms over his chest and leaning back against the couch. “Forgive my limited faith, but I’m actually rather worried you may hurt yourself.”

“ _I’ll show your limited faith_ ,” Miles grumbled, stalking back over to the kitchen. “I’m going to make you to best bloody Bolognese spaghetti alla carbonara you’ve ever had, and then you’ll be eating it _and_ your words!”

“Miles-” Crowley attempted to interject, but Miles simply huffed and pulled the partition shut, blocking the kitchen from view. Within, Crowley could hear Agatha ask, “ _Where do you think he keeps the knives?”_

Not about to have either of them losing a limb and bleeding all over his white-minimalist flat (because it would _completely_ ruin the aesthetic), Crowley scrambled to his feet and hurried into the kitchen.

* * *

An hour later, after instructing Agatha to stick to making margaritas and taking any and all tasks involving the use of knives upon himself, Crowley came to the conclusion that Miles Maitland in a domestic setting was actually a rather fetching look. He had the sleeves of his outrageously expensive white button-down rolled up to his elbows and his curls were tussled from running around the kitchen and repeatedly running his fingers through his hair in an effort to keep his cool. He wanted everything to be perfect, but what he’d hoped would be a simple recipe was actually proving to be rather complicated. What in _God’s bloody name_ did “sauté garlic until fragrant” mean? Wasn’t garlic _always_ fragrant?

Thankfully, while Miles had never even, as Crowley had eloquently observed, “made himself dinosaur-shaped nuggets”, Crowley had a bit more experience in the kitchen. He grew up living with his mother, but he might as well have been living alone; she was always off with some boyfriend or another, and sometimes she would leave him to fend for himself for days (or weeks) on end. He learned to cook dinosaur-shaped nuggets, and much more, at a very young age.

So, when he could see Miles floundering as he gaped at his phone, he plucked it gracefully from his fingers and nudging him with his hip toward the stove.

“Check the pasta, yeah? I’ll…” Peering at the recipe and easily guessing what had thrown Miles off, Crowley smirked, quoting, “sauté the garlic until its fragrant.”

“That doesn’t even sound like it’s written in English,” Miles moped as Crowley busied himself with chopping the fresh garlic and adding it to a saucepan. His morose mood was quickly cured, however, when he lifted the lid off of the pot in which the pasta was boiling. When the steam hit him like a cascading wave, he giddily remarked, “Oh! It’s like a free facial! Agatha, darling, come here! You’ve simply _got_ to try it!”

Agatha, who was sitting on the counter by the blender while she sipped a margarita, hopped down and walked over to see what all the fuss was about. Upon leaning in, she declared, “Oh, that _is_ divine! Who knew spaghetti was such a multipurpose meal?”

A few feet away, Crowley snickered as he sautéed the garlic. Prior to meeting Miles and his gaggle of friends, “spaghetti facial” was a phrase that simply never would have entered into his vocabulary. They were nothing if not a fascinating bunch.

* * *

To everyone’s immense surprise (Miles included), the pasta was actually _quite good_. It had been a joint effort for the most part (with Agatha providing several jugs of margaritas and Crowley taking on any tasks that had the potential to cause bodily harm to the two less experienced chefs), but the real selling point of the dish was the sauce – which Miles, extremely diligently, had prepared all on his own.

_(Truthfully, it shouldn’t have shocked Crowley and Agatha **that** much that he could cook if he put his mind to it. Miles was practically a master chemist when it came to the doling out of drugs; was preparing a pasta sauce really so very different?)_

Still, Miles was rather proud of himself, and Crowley was proud of Miles. It would do him good to become more self-sufficient; after all, _surely_ he wouldn’t want to live in Maitland Manor for his entire life, no matter how nice a house it was. Speaking from personal experience, Crowley had been all too eager to get away from his mother when the acceptance letter with a full ride to Cambridge arrived.

Presently, Miles and Crowley were sitting on the living room floor with the dinner, their backs pressed to the couch behind them; after one margarita too many, Agatha had fallen asleep sprawled across it, leaving virtually no room for either of them to sit down. Not that either minded all that much; Crowley actually liked sitting on the floor, and Miles just liked being close to Crowley. Was that terribly sappy of him?

“This really is quite good,” Crowley admitted yet again as he took another bite of the spaghetti. Miles, who had his head resting on Crowley’s shoulder and was sipping from a glass of red wine, smiled.

“I told you you’d eat your words,” he mused cheekily, humming thoughtfully before he added, “Although, I still can’t say I’ve ever cooked ‘dinosaur-shaped nuggets’. I’m not even sure what those are, actually.”

Crowley nearly choked on his pasta.

“You’ve _never_ … had _dinosaur-shaped nuggets?”_ he wheezed, gratefully taking the glass of wine from Miles' hand and taking a large sip to stop his coughing. Miles, watching him with thinly veiled amusement, shook his head.

“Never.”

“What sort of a childhood did you _have?”_ Crowley questioned as he handed Miles’ glass back to him, and Miles chuckled and shook his head, tucking himself closer against Crowley’s side.

“A terribly posh one, I’m afraid.”

“ _Clearly_ ,” Crowley said, shaking his head with disdain before draping an arm over the couch behind Miles, nudging his cheek with his nose before whispering in his ear, “Now I’ve got to make _you_ dinner.”

Giggling, Miles asked, “Dinosaur-shaped nuggets? Have you actually got those on hand?”

“Of _course_ I do. ‘M not an animal,” Crowley confirmed as he took another bite of pasta, smirking happily at the sound of Miles’ tipsy laughter.

“Oh, my dear, you _are_ too much,” he cooed, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to Crowley’s cheek. Grinning at the sensation and letting his eyes briefly fall shut, Crowley hummed before a thought finally occurred to him.

“What brought this on, anyway?”

“What brought what on?” Miles asked for clarification as he sipped his wine, setting the nearly empty glass on the coffee table in order to free up his arms for wrapping them around Crowley and properly hugging himself to his side.

“You making me dinner,” Crowley hummed, setting his bowl aside in order to better wrap Miles up in his arms in return. Planting a kiss atop Miles’ curls, Crowley let his nose linger in his hair as he mused, “It was a lovely gesture, but certainly not what I was expecting when I was so rudely awoken from my nap.”

Tittering when Crowley brought up his “rudely interrupted nap” yet again, Miles felt a blush spread across his cheeks when he realized what, exactly, Crowley was asking him. Staying quiet for a long moment, he hesitated before explaining, “Well, you… You left your toothbrush behind when you left this morning. And you never sent any messages saying that you forgot it, or that it was a mistake, so… I assumed it meant that you wanted things to become… more _serious_.”

Crowley felt the way that Miles grew tense under the weight of his admission. He didn’t need to ask to know about his precarious romantic history; everyone who read the _Daily Mirror_ knew all about the trials and tribulations of Miles Maitland’s many love affairs. It seemed to be a terrible pattern of Miles diving head over heels for someone, that someone humoring him while the fun lasted, and then dropping him the second that things appeared to be getting serious. The most recent that came to memory was his relationship with Henry “Tiger” Leboucher, who had broken Miles’ heart and then made the situation that much worse by leaking sensitive emails to the press for a quick payday. The _Mirror_ positively had a field day with it all.

Crowley had no intention of being just another Tiger. Against any and all expectations, he fancied Miles; he _really, properly_ fancied him. The sort of fancying where, even if you’d never admit it aloud, you _do_ dream about the person in question. Sliding his fingers gently through Miles’ curls, Crowley held him more securely, catching the way Miles’ breath hitched in response to him not pulling away. It was heartbreaking, that he’d grown to expect abandonment over acceptance.

“I’ve been serious about you since roughly a month in, y’know,” he mused, smirking when Miles looked up with wide eyes before leaning down and capturing his lips in a slow, deep kiss.

_Had he left his toothbrush behind on purpose? No. Truth be told, he’d fallen asleep so soon after getting home that he hadn’t even had a chance to realize it was missing. But if it was the catalyst required to solidify their relationship and help Miles Maitland relax into his arms and under his kiss? Well, then a toothbrush couldn’t be more blissfully forgotten._

Leaving Agatha to sleep dreamily on the couch, the two of them rose and stumbled down the hall to Crowley’s bedroom, managing to keep their lips and limbs locked at all times until the door shut with a _click_ behind them. Miles, clinging to Crowley's t-shirt as they fell onto the mattress, absently found himself thinking that such a close proximity to one's bedroom was yet another perk to dining _in_ versus dining _out_...

_Perhaps they would have to do it more often, being such a serious couple and all._

**Author's Note:**

> Have a prompt? Hit me up @apictureofspace on Tumblr & Twitter.


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